“Forgive me, John,” he faltered, shamed yet still angry. “It’s pain to me, it’s pain. Jim,” he went on, after a long breath and a pull at his glass, “Jim is scared, I know it.” He waited a moment, hunting for the words that he could use without disloyalty. “But it’s nothing he’s done himself,” he said, “nothing to his discredit. I know that.”
Old Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes.
“No offence,” he said quietly.
“Tell me what you know,” cried Tom suddenly, standing up again.
The old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He laid his pipe aside.
“D’ye really want to hear?” he asked in a lowered voice. “Because, if you don’t—why, say so right now. I’m all for justice,” he added, “and always was.”
“Tell me,” said Tom, his heart in his mouth. “Maybe, if I knew—I might help him.” The old man’s words woke fear in him. He well knew his passionate, remorseless sense of justice.
“Help him,” repeated the other. “For a man skeered in his soul there ain’t no help. But—if you want to hear—I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me,” cried Tom. “I will help him,” while rising anger fought back rising fear.
John took another pull at his glass.